NeedlePoint
by Wheelrider
Summary: It's a long ride back to Edoras.
1. I

Needle-Point

I.

There was something in her that turned to him, like a compass needle, something that ignored the stubborn reasoning of her mind, and even the blind grasping of her heart, to align in his direction. She could petulantly delay coming out to the garden, but come she would; then she listened, half-amazed, as her mouth told tales of her childhood and other innocuous anecdotes that seemed to reveal more than was meant—certainly more than was wise—to this man, who took in every word like notes of a favourite song. At times she tried to measure those words more carefully, to remember that she objected to his wilful monopoly of her time and attention, and to let him know it; after all, she wished to be gone from there. He could have given her leave. Pretending to defer power to the Healers was a ploy to fool a child. But somehow her defences dissolved. It could have been his careful, patient questions, or how much he so willingly revealed in turn, or the not-uncomfortable silences they lapsed into now and again. Or nothing to do with speech.

He spoke at whiles of his childhood as well, of small adventures with his brother there in his city, but never for long, and with sadness crossing his face. It was plain that his was a tale with few happy turns, and she found herself in sympathy, wishing, at least, that no further harm should befall him. Of course she did not have any part in preventing such harm, or so the resolute march of her mind told her. His fortunes were his own.

Until…oh, _that day_. Now she feels, by turns, warm with remembrance, weak with anticipation, and fairly panicked. What has she done? How has she let herself be thus led?

A thousand compass needles, all quivering, turning, aligning with a surety that is frightening.

Once again, as the hours and days in the saddle go on, a vague memory steals upon her, not quite a memory but an impression, some base note that seemed to call all those needles: what it was she cannot even name, except to call it his scent. She puzzles over its components: a deep, cool underpinning beneath some livelier layer on top. Cinnamon on slate?—Oh, this would not do—next she would be conjuring up terrible love-songs or sighing over discarded clothing as she has witnessed lads and maids of her household do. She is a woman of arms, by Eorl.

_But we are now in times of peace, such as have not been known in your lifetime._

_What of it?_

She catches her brother studying her with a look of bemusement. She stares back until he smiles and looks away.

The loose group of Riders moves on, under a sky that is now so washed with warm light it is breathtaking. The very grasses seem to sing with gladness. Their pace is steady, not leisurely but not pressing. She glances about the company and sees how they speak together, weary but smiling. In the talk she overhears they are not quite able to rework their memories of battle into fodder for boasting, not yet, but they are filled with thankfulness. Now and again one Rider or another draws up to greet her, some shyly, others barely containing their amazement, and it is a comfort to mark those who have survived.

The time to honour those who have not will draw nigh soon enough.

_I wonder what it will be like to__…_an idle, curious thought bubbles up, but then comes a rush of response out of nowhere—oh no, she does _not_ wonder _that_, not now.

Her brother has ridden close and leans over. "How goes it with the White Lady of Rohan?"

She shoves at him, quick, without thinking. "When did you…do not call me by that name."

He playfully shoves back. "Oh, my sincerest apologies, _Princess_—"

Now she reaches out with her good arm to slap at his head, smiling despite herself. The horses catch their mood and dance a bit, so that her target is just out of reach. It has been such a long time since they felt free to jostle and spar and play this way.

As the sun falls into the west and the sky deepens, they make camp for the night. The songs they sing reflect their mood: simple but joyous, glad for the gift of life. She wonders if the Men of Gondor have their songs at evening; but no, not so many; she would have heard them.

Retreat to her own bedroll brings a fresh wave of thoughts unbidden.

_This man wore his heart on his sleeve, he did. So very rash. How long had it been, five days? How could he possibly know me well enough to…_

_You were willing to throw yourself at another after only a few hours._ But clearly that was an aberration, some product of too much to think on and too little action. She marvels that her infatuation seems but a daydream now, nothing of substance. A vision of light and open air.

The crux of his words that day springs out of memory: w_ere you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you_. Such a bold claim. More than a claim, she knows. The thought carries a shadow of grief evaded.

But what did he truly know of her? And if he did sense or guess at her true nature, as it had seemed then, why did he so suddenly wish to cleave to her? Was it merely the throwing out of a line, the desperate act of a drowning man? Grasping in the same manner that she once had?

Vague hints and pieces of rumour had come to her from those labouring in the Houses. There was no doubt that something awful had befallen the father of this man, something quite other than a noble death in battle, and this _something_ seemed at least a partial cause of his own malady. She had thought it unfair that so many should be chattering around him and yet fall silent in his presence, seeking to keep him unaware. And so she sought to keep herself unaware as well, striving to turn aside in time or to ignore the chatter, to be fair to him at the least.

But it seems to her now that he was not wholly unaware. He knew his father was dead, and that he had not died upon the battlefield, and that was enough. Few words passed between them on this, and yet it lay heavily upon him.

Still he seemed able to lay aside that burden in her presence. He took heart in many fair things surrounding them, and helped her to do the same: birdsongs, flowers blooming, the steady progress of Spring though there be no hope of a Summer to follow. He seemed to have much practice at this.

She remembers the unmuted light in his face when he turned to look at her. She would like to believe he would have shown it still in different circumstances.

She compares his company to the heavy weight of the Wormtongue's attentions. Even when he was merely Gríma, he had seemed to regard her in an unduly favourable light, as a fair adornment for whatever space he would claim, no matter the black looks and stony silences he received. He took pains to learn things about her—circumstances, habits, and the like—but it was a mere list of facts for his use, to try to curry favour, to prove his match. As his poison began to ferment and grow in strength, so too did his designs. If he could not win her, he intimated, he could trap and force. In all, she was merely a vessel for his delusions; she knew that her true nature was of no consequence. All the more a violation.

So many truths could be cloaked behind a veil of one's own devising, willingly concealed by one's own desires and expectations. How to tell when one's heart spoke unfettered?

In sleep she finds herself in a great house, like unto the Golden Hall but changed, larger and darker and leaning off-kilter. She is walking slowly through the rooms, searching for the straight hallway she knows must be there. Behind an odd round door she finds this straight way and follows it to a wing she has not seen before, with tall windows in every wall, long white curtains billowing in a gentle breeze like sails. For a moment she fears becoming lost, but then she hears a sound like clear bells, and is comforted.


	2. II

Needle-Point

II.

The day dawns and the Riders set out for the last march to Edoras. She feels strangely nervous.

Soon they come upon the outer settlements, and some broken and burned places where they had been. The black stumps of timbers where a familiar house once stood—an ordinary farmhouse, one she has ridden past so many times just to see its lively and ever-changing flower garden—are branded instantly into her memory.

There has not been nearly the same destruction visited on this land as on the lands around the stone city. She saw far worse riding across the Pelennor Fields as they departed. But she had never seen it any other way but thus, torn by pits and trenches, smothered in ash and mud. But here, here are places she has long known and loved, not ruined so that she no longer recognizes them, but with stains that look the darker for the swathes untouched.

At last they draw within sight of Meduseld.

_To look on it again!_

The Sons of Eorl from round about have gathered to welcome their living King home with songs lifting up to the heavens.

She is abashed to hear that they welcome her with song as well_. It was not such a large part that I played in all that has passed, just one stroke in one battle, and that under cover of disguise. _Tears of gratitude form and fall nonetheless.

They dismount amidst a press of welcomers and reach the stairs. Her feet feel heavy as they climb. The Hall is still standing, and it is unmarked, and already brighter. But an emptiness reaches out to shadow her joy.

Those who dwell there in service have gathered at the top to line the way to the door. They, too, are singing. She smiles, even through a fresh wave of tears, to see familiar, beloved faces.

_As I never thought I would!_

Her people, her home, all things familiar, bend and ripple before her in the bright sunlight, whether from tears or from some mixing of vision and memory, she cannot tell.

She hesitates before the door. Her brother strides through, beaming and triumphant, and his euphoria sweeps her across the threshold.

The dais looms before them, empty. She halts her steps. Her brother turns, and looks, and comes swiftly back to her.

_Dearer than father, I tried to follow…_

She feels unsteady, at last overwhelmed, but strong arms hold her upright and she gathers herself.

_Now is not the time for grieving. _There is more than grief at work, but she does not wish to try to make sense of these things now. Instead she straightens and wills her eyes to take in the interior.

So much to do, to repair, to put aright.


	3. III

Needle-Point

III.

Days of preparation pass and soon the time comes for Éomer to ride back to Mundburg. She comes out to the stables with him, drawn by some nebulous want.

He turns to her in the midst of loading provisions. "So, tell me, Éowyn…what is it that you find in your betrothed?"

She has expected this sort of question, and yet it still takes her by surprise, for she has not thought of an answer. She starts to speak, and instead looks away at the long grass, waving in the wind.

"I thought that you might find your path… elsewhere," he says with a rueful smile. " 'Tis not so strange that your choice lies with our allies to the South. In truth I thought you might someday find the Steward's elder son to be a suitable match, so like he was to our own people."

She starts and glances toward her brother, but he takes no notice, meant to land no jab. She wants to be angry—this idea is almost repugnant—but checks herself as she recalls fond reminisces in the garden.

She, too, remembers Boromir. Only once did she see him, come to pay his respects to their King, but the impression remains of a man too sure, too proud, expecting them all to be awed. Her brother certainly was. He was a fearsome warrior, and earned her reserved respect on behalf of her people. But she remembers the way he looked at her but once, assessing her, then bestowed a smile meant to be disarming.

She had not spoken of that in the garden.

"Nay," she says simply. He looks at her and starts to ask, but thinks better of it.

What is it this man offers? _Freedom_. The word comes unbidden. Freedom of what? _From_ what?

She begins haltingly. "My…betrothed…" _My betrothed!_ "He sees me as I am."

Her brother looks slightly surprised, but nods slowly. "That is well. But yet you seem to me to hesitate still. What is it you fear?"

_What do I fear? For once, nothing of substance—nothing but my own wayward navigation, and its consequences._

She gives a partial answer. "I cannot help but wonder whether it is right for me to abandon this place, and leave you to set things aright."

His smile holds hard-won understanding. "Too long have you tried to carry that weight. 'Tis time you got out from under it. I would not have given my blessing had I deemed it impossible to carry on alone."

"You gave—" An odd mixture of relief and indignation rises up, and she feels it in her cheeks. "When was it that he asked for your blessing?"

"The day ere we rode out."

She narrows her eyes and holds firm her lips, deciding on indignation. But before she can speak it—

"I also warned him that my blessing was naught but a door opened, not a doom pronounced."

She nods and tries to suppress a smile, but cannot, and grasps his hand. "Thank you, my brother."

"I believe that he intends to ask you again for your hand when he comes, and may keep on asking, all the way up to the moment you are wed. Which is one mark in his favour, as exasperating as it may become."

Laughter bursts from that now-uncovered well inside. She wonders if she will ever stop. But then—_when he comes—_

"_When he comes_, you say?"

Her brother coughs, casts his gaze over the grass, and affects the tone of a marshal. "Aye, when I return with the company—ah, the funeral escort of our Théoden King—the new Steward of Gondor will be among them."

"I see," she says evenly. "Did you intend to reveal this to me beforehand?"

"If you asked. What is one more distinguished guest among the Wise and the Lords of the lands round about us?"

"Oh, you are wicked."

He grins his familiar grin of jests.

"Do not worry, my dear sister. I will make sure that he does not lose his way, and that the men of my _éored_ do not deal with him harshly even as he comes to steal away their most treasured prize...not _too_ harshly."

Again she speaks with a shove.

"There is much yet to do. Get you gone and let me labor in peace. And do not tarry too long."

As she seeks for the next task, her mind begins to turn. She had told this man she would return. Did he doubt her word? Or is it that he cannot wait?

The time of their parting comes back to her. She had spoken her piece, suddenly rueing the need, and hesitated on how to follow, offering her hand in a vague gesture of conciliation. He took it and drew her close, nearly engulfing her, head bent over her, seeming to want to breathe in her very essence with long slow breath. She wondered at her lack of alarm. But then he released her and came back to the necessary state of leave-taking, and immediately she felt bereft.

She thinks now that he was simply taking what solace he could against the chances of the days to come.

Desperate clinging, or pieces falling together as they should be?

At an idle time she finds herself moving toward her chamber, thinking of some small chore or object to retrieve, but knowing what it is that draws her. She has not looked at his letters to her since she left the city. She wonders now if they will be there, or if they were only present in a dream.

But no, they are there in the drawer. Not many, four small leaves of parchment, but they seem to weigh as much as a sword in her hand.

She finds the treasured box her grandmother gave her and starts to put the letters inside. Simply putting things in their places, as she has been doing now for days. But she cannot help but glance at the first word of the topmost, then the first line, and then she is sitting on the bed and reading them all.

She looks up at the familiar walls. Here is the dent in the bed frame where she stabbed it with a dull knife in a childish rage. There is the place on the windowsill she rested her head to look at the furthest constellations deep in the night. The room seems different, seen as if from memory and not right in front of her, an echo.


	4. IV

Needle-Point

IV.

The day of Éomer's return comes at last.

A knot of tension, speculation, tangled and tightened over these last weeks, sits waiting inside her. Who is this man, after all? Would her memory even match the reality now fast approaching? Was the prison she knew simply to be exchanged for another? What right did she have to leave?

There is, of course, the matter of the rest of the host, composed of such exalted personages as have never been seen in Meduseld before.

A messenger comes and she goes out to wait on the terrace with the rest of the household. For a moment she feels as a child again, naught but an orphan washed up by chance on the steps of the great Hall. She wishes her brother were standing beside her.

The travellers come into view. There is a light about this company that shines apart from the Sun glinting on the surface of their raiment. They make a long, shimmering, multicoloured thread stretching up from the valley floor. As they come closer she sees that her brother is at the head, smiling.

Yet without willing she looks past her brother, down the line, searching for one face, _his_ face. And there it is, upturned towards her, also seeking. Their eyes meet for a moment that seems to stretch on and pierce the weight of the occasion. He smiles at her, and she feels herself smiling in return, infused with sudden confidence.

She greets her brother first with a quick, fierce embrace, and is surprised to find her vision blurred yet again with tears. She blinks quickly.

There is Aragorn, now King Elessar, looking no longer stern but joyful. Then she sees the Queen beside him. Her breath stops in her chest. _What an utter fool I was! _Upon greeting this otherworldly presence, she fights to keep her tongue from asking forgiveness. The Queen's still, luminous face reveals nothing, but she feels laid bare in her piercing eyes. Those eyes seem not to hold condemnation or contempt, but mere gentle amusement, all the more disconcerting.

Another otherworldly figure comes into view. Instantly she knows it is the Lady of the Golden Wood, at once more powerful and more lovely than anyone she has ever seen. The sight of her brings a strange longing; for what, she knows not.

It is a relief to greet the Holbytla. Master Holdwine and his cousin are hale and hearty, merry even in their politely formal salutations; their companions less so, but she is glad to see that they are of much better complexion than before.

The wizard Gandalf beams down at her with barely contained mirth. She is not sure from whence it comes, but she lets her tongue have its way this time, and says simply, "I give my thanks to you as well as greeting."

At last, he stands before her, taller than in her memory, his gaze more intense. Yet it takes no more than a moment for the knot to unravel.

"My lord."

"My lady."

"So you have come to fetch me?"

At this, his eyes dance in merriment. "I have."

"Did you fear I would forget you, or my promise to return?"

"I feared to waste the chance to spend time in your company."

He takes her hand and kisses it. For a moment, her senses narrow to that point, oblivious to all else.

The rest of the business of receiving the travellers passes by at a snail's pace.

Finally she finds herself seated next to him in a corner, and their conversation continues as though there has been but a day's pause. She marvels again at what words he can bring to life, words she has only read with effort from dusty pages, as easily as some in her household give breath to curses.

He tells her the tale of their journey, and when he comes to the drums in the hills of the Forest of Drúadan, she asks him about the Wild Men who dwell there.

"Not much is now known of their origins, but some have said that they are unchanged from the earliest days of Men." He begins to recount these origins, seemingly from the beginning. He sees her smiling, unbefitting the story, and ceases speaking.

"What is it that amuses you? Have I said something amiss?"

She laughs. "Nay! It is only that you seem to hold much more history in your head than anyone I have met. Tell me, are there very many books in the archives of your city?"

"A great many, and other forms of writing besides."

"Have you read them all?"

At this he laughs in turn. "I would like someday to say that I have, but alas, their number may be too great, and some are beyond my skill to interpret."

She leans back for a moment in thought. "I wonder...were all these writings meant to make a record of songs and verses once familiar to your people?"

"An interesting question. Some of them were, without a doubt, although most were solitary accounts written without thought of putting to music."

"It seems strange to me...perhaps your people have set their learning down in books so that they can be free to forget it."

He looks at her with slight surprise. "Hm. Perhaps they have."

"It is well, then, that they have you to remind them."

This time his laugh is less mirthful. "That task is far too great for one man. But I hope to do what I can, now that we are done with war, at least for the moment. It is a thing to occupy times of peace."

"So it is. Please continue your tale, or should I say your teaching, for I would not be among the unlearned."

Mirth turns into something softer, and instead he takes her hand. "I will gladly teach you all that you wish to know."


	5. V

Needle-Point

V.

In the day that follows, she shows him about the Hall and its surroundings, eagerly but with a certain shyness. Not from any shame; Meduseld has not appeared so inviting in many long years. Again she has the sense of revealing more than she intends. Yet, in the background of her mind, as she speaks to this man—so easily, so lightly—of things she has never spoken of to anyone else, she is ever keeping watch, and finding no cause to hold back.

They meet on the terrace the next morning, and stand at the edge to look out at the new light moving across the fields below. She remembers the walls of Minas Tirith and has a sudden thought to seek a more private place. But he has an air of gravity about him now and she loses her nerve.

"What would my lord wish to see to begin this day?"

He turns to her, his face earnest. "You have shown me much of your home, and I am grateful for the chance to see it with your eyes. Thus I have also seen your love for it. You may be of a different mind now that you are returned to your own land, among your own people. And so I must ask you: can you bear to leave?"

She is drawn to look in his eyes, sees fervent hope tempered with resignation.

_A different mind. It has been so since I last left this place, and it cannot be changed back._

"There is another place I must show to you."

She leads him past the rear walls of the Hall, across a courtyard littered with blown leaves, through a creaking door half-covered in ivy, then up a path that begins to ascend into the wild of the mountains. She quickens her pace, even as they climb, not looking back. Then she remembers him following behind, and slows, and turns.

"This was my route of escape."

He looks at her with a question, but guessing the answer.

"If Éomer were at last sent to his death…I would not wait."

She climbs further up the path, now narrow and stony, to a cleft in the rock running down from the heights at one side. She places a foot, two hands, and then springs up into the space. Reaching into the black void, she comes out with a pack, damp and dirtied.

He seems to collect himself for a moment. A slow breath, and his hands release from fists. "Would it not have been faster to ride?"

"Faster, but expected. A trusted ally arranged for a horse to be kept ready at a house some leagues to the west." _Oh faithful Háma, how dearly you paid for your loyalty in the end._

He looks out at the plain with a thin smile. "A good strategy."

She cannot help but smile in return. But the great Hall sitting below, an anchor in the sea of grass, speaks of the flaw in her plan. "Except that they—_Wormtongue_—jailed my brother. I could not leave him…"

She turns and looks out as well, at the flat land far below, seeing again the lines drawn, the borders of her own cloister held firm. A flicker of frustration and fear shows on her face. Her own hands are clenched, although she is not aware of it until he gently touches her wrist.

"You and I have seen both the sharp pains of battle without our walls and the slow erosion from within. The one is hard, but the other is far harder. Would that the Shadow had not crept into your own house!"

Clouds race across the sky and darken the grass far off.

Slowly, but slightly, she shakes her head. "It matters not that the Shadow is gone…this house is no longer my home." Once spoken, she knows this to be true, and feels both set free and set adrift.

"And this grieves you," he says gently.

She keeps her eyes fixed on the distant plains. "It does."

A question forms, sudden and sharp, and she finds herself speaking it aloud without thought. "When I rode into battle, I wanted naught but to die. There were others of my people who wanted to live, who rode with the thought of preserving life, who had home and kin to defend. Why should I have been spared?"

He regards her with an old sadness. "Oft is that question asked after bloodshed, and each time is a fresh wound to the heart. Who of us can say if it be mere chance, or the fulfilment of a course long laid out, that spares any one of us? Those few left who would foresee paths appointed are soon to depart. And I begin to question the benefit of some knowledge of a path beyond the culling, for it does nothing to ease the pain of seeing others cut down."

She thinks of his brother.

"I thought once to seek death as well." He says it almost mildly, as though observing a bird in a tree, but with eyes observing nothing of the present. "The easiest way…in truth the way my father all but commanded me to take."

She feels her stomach twist. _His own father— _

"It was only the kind words of Mithrandir that kept me from succumbing. 'Your father will remember ere the end that he loves you,' he said. And perhaps he did. If he did—he showed it by leading me back toward escape in death, the way he deemed best for both of us, his mind twisted by struggle with One too strong."

She could only stare at him, turned towards the empty air of the valley. To think that the full brunt of the Enemy's hatred had come down on his city, on his house, and on his very head, the last survivor. Of what consequence were any simple condolences she could offer? How could she possibly hope to succour this man?

"But in the moments of highest peril I strove only to prevail, and do what I could to deliver those who fought with me. As did you, Éowyn. And when our fates were taken from our own hands, other hands led us back. And here we stand."

He grasps her hand and looks at her intently, willing her to take in his next words. "You cannot deny the chance to live still, once given. What would honour those fallen? To question, and regret, and thus spend your days? Or to take hold of the days, and use them to build anew?"

She looks down at his hands, feels the strength surrounding hers.

Oh how difficult to trust! So much more difficult to cast one's lot not as a pebble thrown over the wall, but as a cornerstone placed in the spot prepared for it; not knowing what weight would be brought to bear, knowing full well it would not be moved again.

Yet not a burden laid, but a building lifted.

It comes to her that she has never spoken his given name, not to him. It was once a petty means of keeping some little distance; now his name has become at once too intimate and too momentous.

_How absurd. Nothing prevents me from addressing this man._

_Why, then, have you not?_

She draws a deep breath.

_You would be a healer. You said it. So begin._

"Faramir."

She senses the slight, quick ripple of shock that goes through him, and knows now that he has been waiting, oh so many long days, to hear his name from her lips.

The look he gives her—such joy, such hope—stops her from saying more. But although he too has drawn breath, he seems unwilling to answer, to interrupt what further flow of words may come.

_Now keep on._

"Let us leave from here. Let us go back to the city of your people, but then continue on, and make a new home."

In an instant she is encircled in his arms. "So we shall," he breathes into her hair. She feels him draw back, and his eyes shine down on her like stars. "By your grace, the land of Ithilien will become a home indeed, for us and for our heirs."

Another thought forms: never had she given a proper answer to his question on that day. She who had so imperiously demanded plain speech had skirted that subject, not precisely saying _yea_ but merely giving hints that fell closer to that side than to _nay_.

This, then, is the true precipice.

"Were you a wanderer, cast out with no land to call your own, unknown to any save me—still I would love you."

_Edit: When first posting this story, I neglected to give credit to Altariel! She gave permission to use the concept of Faramir writing letters to Eowyn from her story "In A Stone City" (which you can find in my Favorites)._


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